WBY Like Father Like Son
by wildblueyonder6
Summary: Someone had asked for John catching Dean doing something and spanking him for it, but then realizing if he'd done it as a kid, he would have gotten away with it. That was the prompt, but it didn't turn out like that. Sometimes the story just goes off on it's own despite my best intentions. Warning: Parental spanking. Please don't read if it offends.


Title: WBY Like Father Like Son

Characters: John and Dean Winchester and Pastor Jim.

Rating: Gen, PG

Summary: Someone had asked for John catching Dean doing something and spanking him for it, but then realizing if he'd done it as a kid, he would have gotten away with it. That was the prompt, but it didn't turn out like that. Sometimes the story just goes off on it's own despite my best intentions.

Hope you enjoy.

XXX

Training with Daniel Elkins was worse than boot camp. At least it felt that way to John. Daniel was as driven as John but was even crankier if that was possible. Working with Daniel was a pain in the ass mostly because John couldn't punch the guy out. Which again, brought him back to Boot. Because no matter how much you hated your DI, you couldn't kick his ass.

John didn't hate Daniel though, he just was never much good at being second in command.

Nevertheless, Daniel was good. Damn good. And if John wanted to become half as good, he needed to watch, listen and follow Daniel's lead. The problem was, John never did take direction well. He quickly amended his thoughts. No, he'd never be called the poster child for blind obedience but he was trainable if the stakes were high enough. It was just that John's way was usually the best way.

It always had been. John chuckled to himself – _so he was a bit arrogant._ Sue him.

Still, Daniel was willing to impart his knowledge to John and that was huge in the scheme of things. It was Daniel who taught John to journal; in fact, it was mandatory in Daniel's world so it became mandatory for John. It was Daniel who helped hone John's tracking skills. It was Daniel who helped turn John from a man who could hunt into a hunter. But most of all, it was Daniel who had the inside scoop on the Colt. True, it was just a story, but if anyone knew of its whereabouts it was Daniel.

So John trained and followed the old man's rules and got better.

He had to get better or he wouldn't survive.

He had to survive to get the thing that killed Mary. He had to survive for his boys.

But two weeks with Daniel had John feeling sore and less than accomplished. Not to mention, he missed his boys. Daniel's cabin was so far back in Bumfuck, Colorado that he didn't even have phone service. Which was fine for Daniel, who didn't want to speak to anyone anyhow. But it was a little harder for John who liked to touch base with the boys when he wasn't home. Of course, Daniel didn't much care what John wanted so stopping training to drive down into the town of Manning itself was more than frowned upon.

So John didn't.

But the boys were safe. They were with Jim and John trusted Jim with his life so he'd be fine with the boys. Plus the boys loved it there. Even Sammy, who at four, was even more stubborn than his big brother and hated when John left, would grin that thousand-watt grin when he knew he was staying with Pastor Jim.

It would be good to see them again.

A half hour out of Blue Earth and John needed gas and to hit the head. Plus a quick call to tell Jim his was on his way would reassure him that all was well. Knowing Jim, he'd make sure there was something warm on the stove and a cold beer in the fridge. Both of which would make John feel almost normal again.

Jim picked up the phone on the first ring.

"Hey, Jim. I'm on my way. I should be there in about a half hour." There was a moment of silence and then his best friend spoke quietly. It was the soothing quiet that John never liked.

"Good. John, listen. I have something to tell you. First, just need to know everything is all right. Both boys are all right."

John's stomach clenched, "What happened?"

"Just…just take a deep breath. Dean's fine."

"Dean? Jesus, Jim."

"He. Is. Fine. Really. It's okay. You know how boys are. They are resilient and kind of bendy. There was just a bit of a commotion is all." Again with the quiet, pastor all-is-good voice.

John growled, " Are you trying to fucking _handle _me Murphy?"

"Now John. Since when have you ever let anyone handle you? I'm just trying to put you at ease."

"Jim, if I have to ask you again, I swear, I'm coming in hot and you and me are gonna dance before I even get in your front door." Threatening a man of God might not be the best choice for some people, but John didn't care. Plus, it wasn't like Jim hadn't taken a punch before at John Winchester's hands. It also wasn't like Jim couldn't take John out given half a chance. The man had been the the Middle Weight Division Champ in the Corp.

Fucking fighting machine - that Jim Murphy was. Damn wirey Irishman, had a wicked right hook and the reach of an orangutan.

But the threat seemed to work. At least a bit. Then again, maybe Jim just decided to tell John anyway.

"I was putting Sammy down for a nap. You know how much that boy fights going down but he was falling asleep on his feet."

John nodded into the phone. Lately, Sam had decided he was too much of a big boy to nap. Didn't mean the boy didn't need it though.

"So, it took a little longer than usual, we had to read the whole first chapter of Robinson Caruso…"

"Jim."

John could hear Jim take a deep breath, "So anyway, Dean was finishing up a late lunch and I figured he would be okay for a few minutes, but you know Dean."

_Yes, yes, I do know him,_ John thought grimly.

"So he must have gotten bored waiting for me to come downstairs. Sammy had just fallen asleep and I was walking down the steps when I heard the explosion."

"EXPLOSION!"

"Well, that might be a strong word. But it was definitely loud and there was an combustive quality to it."

"Combustive quality? Like M80 quality or C-4 quality?"

"Am I taking the easy way out by saying in between?"

"Damn it, Jim. Just spill." John ground the words out.

"So the boy, " Jim took a deep breath, "blew up my shed."

"Your shed?"

"Now, now John – it was an old shed. Besides, I'm not so sure it was intentional. Maybe he was just mucking around with matches. I mean, there was gasoline and paint thinner in there."

"So that makes it so much better? The kid is playing with matches in a shed? That's better than intentionally blowing up your shed?"

"I'm not sure if it's better or not. I'm not sure if I wanna give him kudos for figuring out how to rig a bomb up in such a short time or if I want to smack his butt for playing with things he knows he shouldn't be playing with. Then again, he might have just decided to set a bug on fire. Who knows with Dean." Jim said almost to himself.

"Where is he now?" John asked gruffly.

"In a corner, in the living room. I just wasn't sure what to do with him and the corner seemed like a good spot till I could figure it out. I didn't expect to see you today. I was thinking Wednesday at the earliest."

"Yeah, well I imagine Dean wasn't either."

"No, I'd expect not."

"Well, you tell him to keep his butt in that corner till I get there."

"Sure, John."

"Bye Jim."

Instead of acknowledging the end of the phone call, Jim spoke up again, "John, take it easy on the boy. He is only eight."

"I said bye, Jim."

There was a deep sigh on the other line, "Drive carefully, John. See you soon."

John hung up the phone, unsure if the pounding in his heart was due to anger, relief or stress. It could be a combination of all three.

He had a half hour to either calm himself down or dwell on things and make if worse. He decided on the former and turned on a classic easy rock station. Nothing like a little CCR to help relax a man.

John rolled his shoulders, a small movement, but he could feel a little of the tension in his shoulders unwind. So Dean had blown up a shed. He was okay.

Only eight my ass.

It was easy for John to remember himself at eight. It was an eternity ago, but eight was a rough year for John. Eight was baseball and chores on the farm but he remembered mostly that eight was Mary Campbell. Mary and her yellow hair and gap toothed grin. Mary who had hated his guts with a vengeance. John hated her back too. Not only was she a_ girl_ but she also had a mouth on her that rivaled any boy he knew. Plus she had a vicious right hook. John learned about it first hand in recess when he wouldn't give her back a fairly captured dodge ball. The punch had caught him off guard. True, he'd fielded the blow in stoic Winchester fashion but it didn't stop the gusher nosebleed or his retaliatory upper cut that sent Mary Campbell to the dirt. From then it had been a free for all until Mrs. Marshall had pulled the she-devil off of John.

That little incident caused John to receive the worse spanking of his young life. John's Dad hadn't been big on hugs and kisses, but he hadn't been big on smack downs either. Still, apparently the principal calling you in the middle of a hard day on the tractor, made for a very unhappy father, which in turn, made for a very unhappy son. His father had blistered his butt that day, plus he'd been made to stand in the corner of the barn while his daddy finished up the plowing he'd needed to do.

In retrospect, it hadn't been that long and John wouldn't have been surprised if his father had cut that day short, but for an eight year old, it had been a lifetime. His butt had been burning and his button down was still covered in dried blood. And his nose had hurt.

It had made an impression on John though. Boys don't hit girls. Winchester boys_ really_ don't hit girls.

John had never laid a hand on a girl since. Well, as long as she was a _girl_ and not a monster.

Apparently, his own son needed a lesson imparted today too. Not regarding girls but regarding how a boy behaved while his daddy was away. Not to mention, a clear-cut rule on fire, matches and using accelerants.

John didn't recall getting caught with matches when he was a kid but if he had, he felt pretty sure his old man would have smacked him for that too.

John didn't like spanking his boys. That didn't affect his ability to do a good job on it though. A spanking needed to be tough enough to make it stick. In John's opinion, boys tended to respond to physical reminders to toe the line. Especially _his_ boys. John was quite willing to take some responsibility for having boys who needed to get there butts wacked once in a while, there was no doubt they had inherited his stubbornness. And while it was true that John didn't like spanking his kids -when he made the decision to spank- he made sure he wouldn't have to do it again for the same thing.

John pulled up to Jim's still mulling it around in his head. He'd talk to Dean first; get his take on things but after that? Unless there was some real reason for it well, Dean was getting a spanking that was just as hard as the one John had gotten when he was eight.

Like father like son.

Jim stepped out on the porch to greet John, his smile warm and welcoming.

"John. Glad you made it safely."

John nodded to Jim and then there was a brief handshake-half hug and back thump that was part homecoming ritual, part pure pleasure at seeing each other. John and Jim had been friends since the war. He'd known Jim Murphy, long before he became Pastor Jim. Jim had married he and Mary. He'd baptized the boys and if John had believed in Godparents, Jim would have been their Godfather.

"Should I check out the damage?" John asked.

"Not necessary, it wasn't much of a shed anyway. Still if you want to, it's around back. Not the big shed John, that little one on the right."

John dialed his memory back to Jim Murphy's backyard. There had been a little shed but that didn't mean that Dean should have blown it up. Still, John reckoned he was lucky it wasn't the big one. That one held the old riding mower that Jim's flock had given him when he took over the house and it's accompanying acreage. John imagined that riding mower could have easily become a pretty impressive amount of shrapnel.

"So, where's the detonation expert again?" John asked.

"Corner of the living room. The kid's feeling pretty miserable about the whole thing. You'd never know it though with Dean."

"He didn't give you any lip did he?"

Jim smiled again, shook his head. "Of course not, John. He's been a perfect gentleman."

John snorted. "Yeah, I bet."

"I'm a man of God, John. I wouldn't lie about that. Besides, the kids too worried about you coming home to be smart alecy with me."

"He's a got a right to be worried," John agreed and then he headed into the house.

Dean was in the leaving room, nose to the corner. John figured he'd been there a good 45 minutes. Keeping his nose to that corner was rather impressive for any kid, for Dean it was an act of God. The kid was energy in motion. Besides, if John recalled his own childhood correctly, 45 minutes in regular time was more like 45 years in kid time. He knew Dean heard him come in, had probably heard the Impala in fact. John wasn't sure how he felt when he watched his son's shoulders automatically rack back in a conscious effort to stand at attention while in the corner.

"C'mere, Dean." John spoke quietly but strong and Dean acted accordingly turning and coming to stand in front of him.

"You wanna tell me what happened?" John asked

Dean lifted his head to meet John's eyes. John noticed the obvious lack of eyebrows and offered a silent prayer that the boy wasn't hurt anymore than that.

"I was goofin' around in the shed, Dad. I didn't mean to blow it up." Dean was trying to be brave but the last part wavered just a bit. John didn't hold it against him. It was hard to be brave when you were eight and you were pretty sure your old man was gonna wallop your butt.

"So what did this goofing around entail?"

Dean dropped his eyes, a sure sign that he knew he was wrong.

"Dean." John prompted gently.

"I was just practicin'." There it was. The stubborn that was as much a part of Dean as it was his father.

"Practicing?"

"Yes, sir."

"I don't recall giving you anything to practice that involved blowing stuff up, Dean," John remarked.

"I was, " Dean struggled for the word, "using my initi-initiative. Remember we talked about initiative," Dean sounded a little more sure of himself now, "About how sometimes you have to do stuff on your own and figure stuff out on your own. That's what I was doin'."

John cleared his throat, "I'm pretty sure any talk we had about initiative had nothing to do with blowing up Pastor Jim's shed."

Dean started to roll his eyes but then caught John's glare. He amended the eye roll with a careful, "Yes, sir. But we did talk about it and that is what I was trying to do. It just so happens that Pastor Jim's shed wasn't the best place to do it."

"Explain."

"I, uh, I was you know, using initiative and practicing."

"We've pretty much beat that horse to death, Dean."

Dean gave John a look that said he had no idea what the hell he was talking about. How did the conversation from initiative turn into something about dead horse?

John decided that clarification was in order, "I mean son, we've already talked about practicing and initiative. Cut to the chase."

Apparently, Dean understood that.

"So, anyhow, I was, you know…practicing how to salt n' burn."

John crossed his arms over his chest. Now he was getting somewhere, "So what were you using to do this, Dean?"

Dean dropped his head to the floor; John gently slid a finger under his chin and pushed it back up again.

"Salt. From Pastor Jim's kitchen."

John waited, obviously expecting more,

"And matches, " Dean added, then much softer, "and gas."

John took a deep breath and struggled to keep the panic out of his voice, "Are you allowed to play with matches and gas?"

"No, sir…but I wasn't playin' I was practicin'" Dean leaned on the last word, begging John to understand.

"Well, playing or practicing doesn't really matter if it's something you are not allowed to touch does it?"

"Yeah, but how am I supposed to learn if I can't touch it?" Dean's voice was getting an edge to it. The kind of edge that John wasn't in the mood to tolerate.

"You need to watch your tone, Dean," John didn't drop his voice, he didn't need to.

"Yes, sir." Dean replied quick enough, if still just a little snippy.

"So what happened?"

"It blew up, Dad. But salt n'burns aren't s'pose to blow up, they're s'posed to burn."

John shook his head, "Dean. When I salt and burn something, I'm careful, really careful…"

Dean interrupted, "I _was_ careful."

"Dean. Listen." John did allow his voice to drop a notch.

Dean stopped talking, green eyes meeting John's dark brown with a look of earnestness, "Yes, sir."

"When I salt and burn something, I pour the salt, then the gas, make sure I'm far enough away and make sure there is nothing around that can catch fire. Then I toss the match. You see Dean; it's not just the gas that you have to worry about, in fact, that's the least you have to worry about. You have to worry about the gas vapor – fumes."

"Why? All they do is stink. What's that got to do with anything?"

"Dean, the gasoline fumes are more combustible than the actual gasoline."

"Combustible?"

"Yeah, that means they are more flammable – they can catch on fire easily, it's the fumes that can catch on fire before the match even hits the gas. That's why you have to be super careful when you use gas as an accelerant. That's why you never set fire to anything in an enclosed area with gas around. Like a shed." He narrowed his eyes at Dean.

"You never told me that," Dean said sullenly.

"I didn't need to tell you that, Dean. I told you not to touch matches. I didn't owe you more than that explanation. Your job is to listen to what I say and follow my orders. You don't get to pick and choose the ones you feel like following and you don't get to decide when you can break them." John let that sink in a minute.

Dean nodded.

"So, do you realize how lucky you were? How terrible things could have been? I want you to think on it for a minute and then explain it to me."

Dean scuffed his sneakered foot on the carpet.

"Well, I guess when I tossed the match it caught the fumes on fire before it even got close to the gas. Probly cause the shed was small and there was a lot of fumes in there anyway. There was also other stuff that was flammable too; at least that's what Pastor Jim said. He said there was pain thinner there and that's something that can catch on fire pretty easy. Since I wasn't ready for the explosion, it kind of surprised me. It blew me out of the shed." Dean glanced at John's frown.

"But I didn't get hurt, Dad. Just burned my eyebrows a bit." Dean offered, as if that made all the difference in the world.

"And how could this have been avoided?" John asked mildly.

"By not practicing the salt n' burn."

"No – by not _playing_ with the matches. This was not you practicing a skill I told you to practice. This was going out on your own to do something you knew damn well you were not supposed to do."

"What about the initiative, Dad?"

"What about it? Initiative has nothing to do with disobeying direct orders. It has to do with thinking outside the box and coming up with different ideas within the confines of the rules. You did _nothing_ like that, Dean."

Dean' s face grew a shade darker as he listened to John's rebuke.

"But I…"

"Dean. That's enough. I'm not in the habit of making up rules for you to ignore. Nor am I particularly happy that when I come home to see my boy and I find out he's blown up a shed and nearly killed himself."

Dean shook his head, "I didn't nearly kill myself. Not even close."

"Dean Winchester, just because you managed to avoid blowing yourself to pieces, does not mean that it couldn't have happened. You just happened to be lucky."

"M' not feeling very lucky."

John would have chuckled if it wasn't for the seriousness of the matter.

"I imagine not," He agreed, "But believe me, you are."

John glanced around Jim's living room, settling on a hardback chair that was part of a small desk and chair combo that held some writing materials and a phone. "That'll do." He said almost to himself and then he walked over in two large strides and grabbed said chair and moved it closer to the middle of the living room.

"Dad, you'll wake Sammy." Dean said, as if it would really make that much of a difference.

"Not really, son. You'll probably wake Sammy."

The frustration level was palpable in the boy, but John steadfastly ignored it. There was no use making things worse.

He sat down and gestured to Dean, a brief nod was all it took for Dean to stumble to his side.

"Drop the jeans, Dean."

Dean did readily enough but then stood there in Jim's living room in his boxers and crossed his arms defiantly. He didn't say a word, but the body language was obvious. He was going to get his butt spanked and that was not going to change. But he was not going to like it. As long as John didn't feel the kid was being belligerent, well he could understand Dean's physical stance, he would however not tolerate any bullshit and Dean must have realized it because he just threw himself over John's lap without any more procrastination.

John started in quick and sharp, his hand flat against Dean's butt. It stung his hand so he was quite sure it made an impression on Dean. Dean couldn't help but wiggle in an effort to get his butt out of firing range but that didn't bother John in the least. He just snugged him in tighter and smacked just a bit harder. John took into account that the boy was only eight, but that didn't slow down the spanks. He wondered briefly if his father had thought that when he'd spanked John's butt so many years ago. John figured he must have because as he had gotten older, the spankings had gotten tougher. It didn't diminish John's recollection of that thrashing when he was eight years old though. He figured Dean would remember this one as well.

Finally Dean started crying. Soon after it progressed to the deep sobs of a boy who was truly remorseful even if it was just because his ass was hurting. As a parting shot, John skimmed down Dean's boxers and took a brief glance at the boy's rosy red cheeks. He added a volley of swats, sans boxers and was gratified to hear the pitch and intensity of yelling increase incrementally.

He stopped then but Dean just stayed over his lap for a few more moments crying. Then, as if he suddenly realized the licking was over, Dean scrambled off John's lap, pulling his boxers up as he did so. John handed the boy a Kleenex, which Dean used as discreetly as possible. He turned away from John hitching a stilted breath.

"Dean." John spoke soft.

Dean didn't turn back to John but acknowledged him with a quiet, "Yes, sir."

"C'mere."

Dean turned back toward John and when John motioned he stepped into the V between his legs. John pulled Dean close to him, "its okay, kiddo."

Dean cried a little more then hiccupped, "Doesn't feel okay."

"I know, Dean. Spankings hurt. But I'd rather have your bottom hurt for a day or two than to have your whole body hurt for a helluva a lot longer. You'll remember this for a while - hopefully forever- and you won't make this mistake again."

"I think I would've remembered without the whoopin' Dad."

John grinned and kissed the top of Dean's head. "Maybe, but I'm not taking any chances."

Dean leaned into John's chest and John folded the boy into his arms. It was as if that hug brought all the emotion of the day to the forefront and the tidal wave of crying started fresh as Dean allowed himself to be comforted by John. John felt the solid warmth of Dean in his arms and the wetness on his shirt and felt just as comforted.

If he didn't have this boy where would he be?

Finally cried out, Dean just snuggled with John until he seemed to realize how undignified he appeared. He pulled away from and sniffed a shirtsleeve against his nose. John offered him another Kleenex.

"Do you wanna lay down?" John asked.

"'M not a baby like Sammy, Dad. I don't need to take naps."

"No, but your brother is probably awake by now and maybe a little worried. Why don't you head on up and let him know your okay. If you lay down next to him, he might just go back to sleep."

Dean looked at John warily, as if he realized he was being used. Apparently though, he was okay with it because he nodded and headed up the stairs.

John watched him go a small smile on his face.

"Do you always smile after you spank your kids?" Jim Murphy stepped into the living room and handed John a beer.

"No, but I can't help but smile when I think about how glad I am that kid is here."

"You sound like a proud father talking."

John nodded, "I am. I'm also more than a little worried. He's only eight and he's already blowing shit up."

"True, " Jim agreed, "but more than that, he's trying to be you. You are gonna have to watch that one, John– the kid is crazy smart and he doesn't always think before he acts. He reminds me of a certain Johnny Winchester."

John snorted, "Hell, I think about taking a dump before I actually do it. There ain't nothing I don't think about in fucking triplicate."

"Well, you do now. But you haven't always. That's one of the perks of having known you as long as I have. I remember teenage John Winchester. I remember a certain Gunny taking you down a notch for jumping the gun at one thing or another. Don't deny it John. I was there remember?"

John thought about lying but it wouldn't matter. Jim Murphy _had_ been there and no one could call him on his shit any quicker or with any more clarity than Jim. Except maybe his Mary, but with her gone, Jim held that particular place of honor.

"Okay, Pastor Jim. You won this particular fight. I got it. The kids a lot like his old man. Hopefully, he will get over it." John grinned at his old friend.

Jim smiled wistfully back, "Hopefully he won't."

end


End file.
